


Almost Human

by KrystalM



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Robots & Androids, Angst with a Happy Ending, Attempt at Humor, Cyborg!John, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Misunderstandings, Oblivious Molly, POV Sherlock Holmes, Scientist Sherlock, Sentient Cyborgs, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, Stubborn John, Stubborn Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-12
Updated: 2015-11-12
Packaged: 2018-05-01 06:38:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5195918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KrystalM/pseuds/KrystalM
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock had always experimented on things especially when he's bored. When he decides to create a cyborg, just out of curiosity, he thought he had managed to create the perfect cyborg. Doesn't feel, follows his orders, emotionless, a perfect cyborg. Well, that was what he thought until one day, he came home shot with a bullet wound on his shoulder. He didn't see <em>that</em> coming from his so-called cyborg now, did he?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Almost Human

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Not mine!
> 
> A/N: Heyyo! I was actually supposed to study for my sem exam but uhm, halfway studying, this idea started to bug me and yeah. So, ta-da! I don't know if the fandom actually had an AU where cyborgs existed--but if they didn't yet then, yay! I might be the first one~! /cough/ Okay, so anyways, I'll just ramble at the end, okay? Until to the end, enjoy reading!
> 
> Catch me here too!
> 
> [Wattpad](http://www.wattpad.com/user/KrystalM) | [FFNet ](http://www.fanfiction.net/~xokrystalmox) | [GoodReads](https://www.goodreads.com/user/show/42035367-krystal-m) | [Tumblr](http://thekmuniverse.tumblr.com/) | [LiveJournal](http://kmunroe.livejournal.com/)

 

Sherlock huffed out his breath in annoyance when he looked around his flat. It was messy, but that wasn’t what made him irritated. It was this air inside of the flat; that touch of boredom floating about in his space that made him agitated.

 

He had just solved another case, a wonder why this world despite having advanced in every aspect until they had created police robots, still couldn’t catch law offenders without breaking a sweat. But that gave him the opportunity to show off, so he guessed it all worked in his favour one way or the other.

 

The detective walked closer to the window before he pulled apart the curtains. He took a look outside and immediately scowled. The road was empty, the stars were out to play, and there was absolutely nothing interesting happening out there that needed his attention.

 

He glanced at his wrist watch and pulled his sleeve down harshly. It had only been two hours since he last solved a case and yet he was already bored. His brain felt empty and he could feel it screaming at him. The brain cells were slowly dying in agony from the boredom.

 

Ugh, he needed a new case and he needed it _now_.

 

He could even feel the slight tremors of anxiety working in his veins. Sherlock pushed any unnecessary thoughts that headed towards _that_ lifestyle far away from his reach. He didn’t need that lifestyle. He was perfectly—composed having this lifestyle.

 

 _Boring_ , his mind cooed at him dryly.

 

Perhaps, he mused on. _What-_ eh- _ver_. He turned to his table and switched on his laptop. He logged into his website and searched through anything interesting to do. But all of them were just random stupid cases that really didn’t require his immediate attention. No, it required some other idiot to help them out because that was what these people who contacted Sherlock were—another bunch of idiots.

 

He slammed his laptop shut and huffed out loud once more. “Mrs Hudson!” he yelled out for his landlady. “Mrs Hudson! Where are you? Mrs Hudson!”

 

But there was no reply. _She went out_ , his mind immediately supplied unhelpfully. “Obviously she would. What is this, her fourth date with that man? Fruitless. He’s clearly cheating on his wife to be with Mrs Hudson. Oh, why are people so, so, _so_ _blind_ sometimes?”

 

Really, why couldn’t he have it easier? 

 

He shrugged that bugging thought out of his head and walked to the kitchen. Maybe he could make tea for himself. He barely touched the kettle before he decided that no, he was too lifeless to do that. He needed something to do. Sherlock went through the list of things he wanted to experiment on in his head and immediately decided that yes, this should occupy his time.

 

However, as he checked off one by one of the things he wanted to try, he decided that he needed something much more interesting to work on. Maybe it would help him if he decided to venture out in something that he wasn’t familiar with. Sherlock smirked to himself.

 

That shouldn’t be too hard.

 

He leaned against the kitchen counter and looked around his flat. He rarely thought he needed to do something else besides experimenting on that jar of cow eyes he got or with recent ways to remove stains from clothes using various types of acids. But that was just it, he had always been focused so much on Chemistry and Biology, he rarely had time to think up something entirely—Physics-related.

 

The tall detective closed his eyes for a while before he went back to where he kept all of his ideas. He ventured through the halls, down the corridor and up the stairs he went. His palace was huge, filled with so many things arranged in an orderly fashion. But there were also so many empty spaces that needed to be filled.

 

But Sherlock never touched them. He didn’t think it would matter anyways. Most of those spaces were for sentimental things. Something that he wasn’t familiar with—something that he had learned to despise since young.

 

It wasn’t something he would ever want to touch either.

 

And then, he found something. It wasn’t something that could be finished within the first few days. It would take months of preparation, it would be a long, tedious work and not to mention, it would take him a lot of approvals from so many places before he could finalise it.

 

But somehow, Sherlock didn’t seem to mind for someone who disliked tediousness.

 

And the boredom was agitating once more, clawing at his mind. So, he just took the plan out, examined it carefully and then, opened his eyes, exiting his Mind Palace. A smile stretched out on those pale lips before he bounced on his feet and headed out of the kitchen. He would need things, and a place to actually start on his experiment.

 

Just as he was about to take a step forward, his mind pinged that maybe—he might need Mycroft’s help on this one. He scowled immediately and he was _this_ close on forgoing the idea after all because he was not that desperate until he had to ask for his brother’s help. But this was interesting, besides, it wasn’t uncommon anymore for people to want to make one.

 

There were even companies promoting this. They would buy your latest creation. Sherlock could even make extra money, who knew. He sighed before he wrapped the scarf around his neck and decided to do this anyway.

 

Why the bloody hell not, yeah?

 

***

 

Mycroft was not amused.

 

Sherlock honestly gave no damn care.

 

“Sherlock,” Mycroft began. “This needs dedication and approval from various parties.”

 

“Don’t make me say it, Mycroft,” Sherlock scowled. His brother simply twirled his umbrella though a smile twitched on those lips. His brother found this amusing. Sherlock’s scowled deeper because he did not come here to be mocked.

 

“Well, proposing to actually make a— _cyborg_ , is not something I thought I would hear from you,” Mycroft said with a deep breath.

 

“It’s not something that I just came up with, Mycroft,” Sherlock said. “Everyone else is doing it.”

 

“And then selling it for money,” Mycroft mused. “If you have money problems, Sherlock, all you had to do was ask.”

 

“Mycroft, do not waste my time,” Sherlock bit out as he frowned. “Do you think you can help me or not?”

 

After a moment of silence, Mycroft sighed before he nodded and crossed his leg on the couch he was sitting on. “Very well, it would keep you out of trouble, wouldn’t it?”

 

“I’m not a petulant _child_ ,” Sherlock said as if he was offended. “It’s an experiment that somewhat requires your power to pull the strings. I’m just using you. Don’t get too cocky.”

 

“Ah, of course not,” Mycroft said though he smiled. “Very well. Have it your way. I’ll set it all up for you in the next two days.”

 

“What? _Two days_?” Sherlock asked indignantly. “What am I to do for the next forty-eight hours?”

 

“I don’t know,” Mycroft said as he stood up. “Play cards, go out, _make friends_. I have to get going, Sherlock. An important business needs my attention. I’ll call you when it’s all set up. Goodbye, dear brother.”

 

Sherlock watched his brother walk out of the door. He silently waited for a second before he sighed and stood up. It was still something than nothing. However, for now, he needed to find something to scratch that itch for the next forty-eight hours. He was going to be half-mad until then.

 

He licked his suddenly dry lips and walked out of the room.

 

***

 

Just as promised, Sherlock’s phone rang after two days since his meeting with his annoying brother. Sherlock picked it up without hesitation. He had had a terrible time trying to keep himself occupied. Even Mrs Hudson almost threw in the towel, threatening him that if he didn’t behave, she would kick him out, fond of him or not.

 

“Really, Sherlock? Shooting the walls at one in the morning?” was Mycroft’s first greeting when Sherlock picked his phone up. The young detective frowned and simply laid lifelessly on the couch, his limbs all over the place like jelly.

 

“Whatever. Have you set it all up?” Sherlock asked, heading straight to the point. He heard Mycroft’s insufferable sigh before the older man hummed out in confirmation.

 

“Yes, dear brother,” Mycroft said. “You have your own lab, and everything else you needed for this— _experiment_. Just make sure you follow the guidelines. You don’t need to add ‘misuse of items’ in your track record.”

 

“No need to remind me, Mycroft,” Sherlock said as he sat up. His mind started to work again and what a lovely feeling it was as he made plans on what were the first few things he would do first. He bounced up from the sofa and headed out of the living room. “Address.”

 

“Jot it down,” Mycroft said. “I mean it, Sherlock. Do not misuse this to create other than what you wanted to create. I do not need a psychotic robot terrorising the streets.”

 

“Yes, yes,” Sherlock said as he found a paper and pen. “Address, _now_.”

 

After jotting down the address, Sherlock found himself actually—excited for this experiment. “Goodbye, Mycroft.” He hung up before he went and got himself dressed. He already had the outlines in his head. All he had to do was to act it out.

 

***

 

When he first started this project, he didn’t think it would be that hard to start. But—he quickly found out that it was. He had limited experience in some parts, so he had to study them for a while before he could proceed to the next step. But Sherlock, for once, found that no, he didn’t get bored.

 

It was like he had found a new goal in his life. He wanted to create a cyborg that was unique, that told a story about himself, that was just— _him_. A creation that would be so much better than all those other junks out there. This cyborg would be his first real world-changing invention.

 

That thought boggled Sherlock for a minute every time it crossed his mind, but then he would get back to working because, it wasn’t the first time he did something that boggled him. It took a lot of time, especially when suddenly, just as he started with his project, new cases poured at his doorstep.

 

But Sherlock never rejected them. He couldn’t actually forget the adrenaline rush on knowing that it was only him who could crack the case, so he took them, despite the fact that he would slap the stupid simple ones back to Lestrade’s face.

 

Soon the days flew by to months and the months—they flew into a year.

 

Before he knew it, it took him a year and a half, almost two years before he finally finalised the last draft and created it. When he added the last piece in, when he gotten it skin, determined what eye colour, hair colour and everything else in between—it took him another six more months.

 

And then there it was. In front of him. Finished, finalised, just— _there_ , in front of him.

 

Sherlock took a step back and felt something weird crawling in his chest because—this was it. He only had to press on the button and all the coding would be encrypted in it and it will turn on. The detective didn’t know why he hesitated, but he did. For a second, he hesitated to press on the ‘Enter’ button.

 

He frowned to himself as he decided that maybe, he should recheck the encryption one last time, just in case he went somewhere wrong with it. But he decided against it after another minute. Without hesitating anymore, he pressed on the button. It was silent for a while before the slight beeping noise from the main computer took him off guard.

 

The words ‘Upload Successful’ flashed in neon green on the screen.

 

He smiled to himself before he looked back at the cyborg. He walked towards it, sitting on the chair like lifeless body, almost Human looking if not for the little serial number by his neck. He waited for a minute for it to start working.

 

But after a whole minute, Sherlock frowned when it wouldn’t start. “Why wouldn’t you open your eyes?” he asked to himself before he went back to the main computer. He tried to diagnose the problem when there was a sudden shifting noise from behind him. Sherlock’s fingers froze on the keyboard.

 

His heart picked up speed and he licked his lips.

 

He waited for a second before he turned around. And then—his breath caught at his throat because there it was. His creation, the eyes fluttering open and blinking. The first thing Sherlock noticed was how blue it was. It was in clear blue like the ocean. It remained motionless before it tilted its head once and then twice before it scanned the room.

 

Sherlock watched cautiously, his finger hovering over the ‘End’ button just in case something was about to go wrong. But the cyborg didn’t do anything to warrant wrong intentions. Instead, it just started to move its fingers, toes, legs, arms and then it tried to stand up.

 

“Stop,” Sherlock ordered immediately, his heart leaped out of his chest once when the cyborg snapped its head to look at him.

 

It sat back down and stopped moving immediately. Sherlock examined it, deduced it and when it was true he was listening to Sherlock, the detective heaved out a sigh in relief. The tall man walked away from the main computer to stand in front of it.

 

The cyborg looked up to his creator and it just watched him lifelessly. “What are you?” Sherlock asked, testing its speech pattern.

 

“I am an artificial intelligence made into a semi-biological body. I am at your will to do anything you want to,” the cyborg spoke out, its voice was male, but cold and metallic. Sherlock was impressed. Good, it was working.

 

“Right,” he said before he nodded and decided to bring it home. He would test it at home for a few times and if there was nothing else to adjust, he would be able to sell it. Sherlock wasn’t really into money but he didn’t think the cyborg would be useful to him anymore after he got bored of it.

 

It just stared at him as Sherlock started to move about the room, getting ready for them to relocate back to Baker Street.

 

Sherlock missed how it blinked in curiosity before its eyes went blank again.

 

***

 

Sherlock tested it out to his heart’s content. He asked it to move his things, he asked it to clean his flat, and he even asked it to slam the door in Lestrade’s face when he brought uninteresting cases to him again. The cyborg was working splendidly.

 

When Mycroft first met the cyborg, he raised his eyebrows high up. “He looks so human,” was Mycroft’s comment. “ _Too human_.”

 

“Authenticity,” Sherlock dismissed that comment. The cyborg simply looked at Mycroft and Sherlock was proud at how it was merely staring at his brother until Mycroft got uncomfortable and left. He couldn’t help but to smirk widely at that.

 

Next, Lestrade found out—when it slammed the door at his face. His reaction was much more exciting. He gawked, stared before he spluttered out a response with ‘What? Sherlock, you did that?’

 

Sherlock simply frowned and said, “Yes, I could’ve made it better. Oh wells. Don’t come back until you have a better case, Lestrade.”

 

Molly was just freaked out when she realised that it was not actually human.

 

“Sherlock,” she said with wide eyes as she set the jar of human tongues Sherlock requested the other day on the kitchen table. Since he had nothing else to do at the moment, he would get back to his other experiments. “This is—gorgeous!”

 

“Hm,” was the detective’s response as he went to examine the tongues. Then, she turned around and frowned.

 

“Sherlock, what is his name?”

 

“ _It_ ,” Sherlock corrected her as he took out his microscope. “And it has a serial code at its neck. Knock yourself out.”

 

“Sherlock, don’t tell me he doesn’t have a name!” she said. Sherlock was beginning to get irritated as he glared at her.

 

“Why does it matter if _it_ has a name or not?” he said. “It will be sold anyways.”

 

Sherlock glanced at the cyborg and he thought for a moment he saw it flinch. He blinked once and the cyborg was emotionless again. Huh. Molly frowned heavily at him before she sighed and looked back at the cyborg. After a minute, she said, “John.”

 

“ _No_ ,” Sherlock immediately rejected her. “No, Molly. It does not need a _name_.”

 

“John,” she said ignoring him before she beamed up. “Watson. John Watson. Doesn’t that sound nice?”

 

“Molly,” he gritted his teeth. “ _Get out_.”

 

Molly glanced at the detective before she noticed the dark glare being aimed at her. She immediately nodded and scurried away. Sherlock scoffed before he looked at the cyborg. “You, do not need a name. Go away.” He dismissed it and without hesitation, the cyborg walked away.

 

So, it was all well and everything. Even Mrs Hudson had learned to accept it.

 

And after six months of nothing going wrong, something did went wrong.

 

 _Tremendously_.

 

It started with Sherlock getting shot.

 

***

 

He had been chasing the criminal down the streets and he managed to catch him. What he didn’t expect was getting shot before he was able to actually hand the criminal over to Lestrade. To say the least, nobody was pleased with Sherlock’s foolish actions.

 

Mycroft simply frowned at him.

 

Lestrade simply frowned at him. And had the nerve to shake his head.

 

Even Anderson frowned at him. Okay, so he smirked.

 

Whatever, Sherlock muttered bitterly in his head as he walked into his flat. Mrs Hudson ushered him up the stairs. The detective walked into the living room and the first thing that caught his attention was the lack of the cyborg. He frowned as he walked to his armchair and sat down. The bullet wound at his shoulder pained the more he moved.

 

The doctor said he was lucky it didn’t hit anything vital.

 

Just then, he heard a gasp from the kitchen doorway. Sherlock looked at who it was and immediately reeled away when he realised it was the cyborg. Its eyes were wide, its lips were apart and it stood like it was shocked. There were—emotions in those eyes. Sherlock frowned even deeper.

 

“S—Sherlock!” it exclaimed before hurrying to stand in front of the man. “What happened?” it asked.

 

Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows. “I don’t believe I gave you an order to—”

 

“Oh you stupid man!” the cyborg exclaimed and Sherlock’s eyes widened.

 

“Pardon me?” he asked indignantly.

 

“Shut the hell up, Sherlock,” it growled and Sherlock simply glared at it because—what was going on? It touched the wound and immediately Sherlock stood up and pushed the cyborg away. He licked his lips and frowned deeper.

 

“You, what are you doing?” he asked. Immediately, the cyborg stopped moving and it seemed as if it—froze. The worried look on its face flushed down to what seemed like guilt. Even its cheeks were turning red. And that was a surprise because Sherlock hadn’t seen that part of his cyborg yet. Not yet anyways, but it was half-biological. It would be logical for it to be red whenever it—wait, no.

 

It shouldn’t feel.

 

That was the purpose of this entire design.

 

It was not supposed to _feel_.

 

This thing in front of him was _not_ his creation. “U-uhm,” it stuttered. “Sherlock.”

 

“ _Do not_ ,” he growled out as it stopped talking. Something dimmed in those eyes and Sherlock had to keep himself in check, because what was this? “What happened? Are you faulty?”

 

“N—no,” the thing said as it looked back at Sherlock. Then it clenched its hands into a fist at its sides. It looked—determined. “I have always been like this. I—just couldn’t contain my worry anymore when you come back shot.”

 

“Worry?” Sherlock asked, confirming his suspicion. “You are not supposed to feel! You are a cyborg. A program I created. You do not _feel_.”

 

It did not seem happy about the answer as it crossed its arms and said, “Well you must not be a very good programmer then because I’m feeling, Sherlock. Right now, I’m angry. How the hell did you manage to get that wound? I really didn’t believe it when Lestrade kept saying to not rush off on your own, but I guess we now know that’s true, isn’t it?” it continued before ending its note bitterly.

 

Sherlock didn’t think he would ever feel this disappointed in himself ever, but he was, right now, today, when this thing he created was standing in front of him and _lecturing_ him. “Deactivate,” was the first words out from his mouth. It stopped rambling immediately and for a while, it looked— _hurt_.

 

Then, it shook its head and walked into the kitchen, _muttering_.

 

Sherlock simply watched it leave the living room and wondered briefly where he had gone wrong. What was happening here?

 

***

 

Sherlock didn’t come out of his room for a few days except to get something to eat or drink. He managed to avoid the cyborg as much as he could. He even contemplated to call his brother and ask him to destroy that thing—but stopped himself when he would imagine the smug look on his brother’s face.

 

No, he didn’t want that.

 

But by the third day, the thing actually searched out for him and knocked on his room door a few times. Sherlock froze for a second when the doorknob to his door was twisted, but unable to open since he had locked it. He patted himself at the back for that quick move.

 

“S—Sherlock?” the voice spoke from the other side. Sherlock remained quiet, not sure himself if he was breathing. “Sherlock, I’m sorry.”

 

It _apologised_.

 

Sherlock felt even weirder because suddenly—he was…guilty? He shuddered at the feeling. _Gross_. “I’m sorry. Please come out. I—I didn’t mean to talk back. I’ll shut up. I won’t…I won’t act on my own anymore. I was just—scared.”

 

Scared?

 

Why would his cyborg be scared? Why should it be scared?

 

“I was scared that you were permanently damaged. I’m sorry. Please talk to me again,” the cyborg spoke and the more it said, the less confident its voice became. It was like it was genuinely sorry. Sherlock frowned to himself as he sat at the edge of the bed. After a while, he heard footsteps moving away from his door.

 

He didn’t want to come out, no matter what that thing said. But at the end of the day, he ended up peeking out of his room door and looking down the stairs. He heard shuffling noises from the living room as he slowly descended down. At the bottom of the stairs, he looked inside and saw the cyborg sitting at Sherlock’s chair, just staring into the fireplace.

 

As if it sensed that he was here, it looked away from the fireplace to Sherlock. The cyborg stood up and before Sherlock could comprehend on what was happening, it smiled widely, its eyes twinkled and everything about this thing in front of him looked genuinely happy to see him.

 

Then its eyes softened and it took a step forward. “You came out.”

 

Sherlock felt himself feeling a bit awkward. “Yes, well done suggesting the obvious.”

 

It frowned almost immediately before its eyes looked to the floor. Sherlock noticed how its shoulders dropped in defeat. For a second, there was no noise but just the two of them breathing. Then, Sherlock cleared his throat as he leaned against the living room doorway. “How long have you been able to—think on your own will?”

 

The cyborg fidgeted before it sighed. “Since the beginning?”

 

“That’s impossible,” Sherlock breathed out. “You were working perfectly fine.”

 

“I just didn’t show it, that’s all,” it said slowly. “I just didn’t think you’d appreciate me being—myself.”

 

“Yourself?” Sherlock asked as he raised his eyebrows in a manner. “I believe you were programmed by me however I see fit. You do not have a ‘yourself’.”

 

“I do!” the cyborg said as it looked at him sharply. “I am just as much alive as you are. Just because you created me doesn’t mean I’m not real. I—I have a soul too.”

 

Sherlock had wanted to run away. Perhaps had his brain checked out because that was a bunch of bollocks he was hearing. “You are not alive. You do not have a heart. You certainly do not have a soul.”

 

The cyborg licked its lips and something like hurt and anger washed into those blue eyes. It took a few steps forwards before it said, “Then what about you? I believe you don’t have a heart too. Or a soul because you don’t feel as well. Isn’t that what you’ve been saying to your friends all the time? Self-proclaimed sociopath. If I’m not alive, then what are you?”

 

Sherlock was taken aback at the words as he stared into those blue eyes. There were genuinely hurt and far more, they looked so very human. _Sentiment_ , his mind provided. But this cyborg was not supposed to be like that. This was deemed to be a failure. He should immediately deactivate it, remove it and have it recycled.

 

It should not be here talking back to him.

 

And yet, Sherlock suddenly felt—intrigued with this cyborg.

 

It talked back to him.

 

“Are you going to turn me off then?” it spoke slowly, its voice lost its determination. Sherlock eyed it for a minute and his rational part of his brain told him he should. He should have it terminated. But his curios side didn’t think it would be that bad. Not yet anyways, to examine this odd situation a bit more. What could’ve gone wrong? Was it the coding?

 

Sherlock wasn’t sure. But he didn’t answer the cyborg as he huffed out his breath and walked back upstairs. Slamming the door shut, he blinked a few times.

 

He should think about this a bit more. This was not logical. He should not be allowed to keep such a sentient object in the house. But he couldn’t find it in himself to not want to examine this piece of weirdness a bit closer. Maybe it would hold secrets that no one else had discovered yet.

 

And Sherlock did love a good puzzle.

 

That was what he convinced himself to keep this cyborg here.

 

Not the fact that for once in his entire life, he suddenly felt—not lonely.

 

***

 

It was wary of him in the first few days. It fidgeted when Sherlock glanced at it, it even was startled when Sherlock asked it to do something. Sherlock knew it was holding itself back. Sometimes, it wouldn’t even speak.

 

It just looked like it was trying too hard.

 

But the detective didn’t say anything. He didn’t hint out the fact that he was going to terminate the cyborg, he didn’t even hint the fact that he was disturbed with it. He was curious as to how this machinery would behave if it was left to be on its own.

 

If it was left to carry out its own free will, what would it do with it?

 

Sherlock might be the sole owner under registration law wise, but in this flat, the detective was trying to give this cyborg a chance to be its own—person. It sounded ridiculous in his mind. It sounded sentimental and by god he hated sentiment. It was a weakness.

 

It was a disadvantage at most.

 

It never helped him once, and it never will. He shouldn’t even start with this thing in front of him.

 

So, he locked it away in his Mind Palace, far away from his heart, though he kept on telling himself that he did not possess one. He was no angel. Even if he was, he doubted he would ever be on their side.

 

Then, one day, it spoke. “What’s my name?”

 

Sherlock was playing the violin and it should really say something at how ease he had become with the cyborg in the flat. A sentient cyborg who could literally do whatever it wanted however it wanted and whenever it wanted. A cyborg which had its own free will. It should really say something about the state of mind he was in—but then again when had he ever done things normally?

 

There was a screech from the strings as he stopped playing abruptly. “Excuse me?” he asked as he looked away from the windows to the cyborg, who was sitting in front of the fireplace, just staring into the fire.

 

It looked at him from the corner of its eyes before it shrugged. “I want a name.”

 

“A _name_ ,” Sherlock said with a frown as he placed his violin on the table. “What for? You’re not a  human.”

 

He saw how it flinched at the words and its shoulders tensed. “I want a name.”

 

“You will not get one,” was Sherlock’s final answer. He watched carefully how the cyborg flinched once more at the blatant rejection. Then, it finally stood up and turned to look at the taller man. Its lips were stretched into a thin line and its eyes were filled with—anger. Maybe even disappointment and Sherlock quickly found out that he perhaps, disliked that look on its face.

 

“I want one, Sherlock,” it said after a minute, voice low. “Can’t I have one? Why does everything gets to have a name but me?”

 

“Because you are not supposed to have one,” Sherlock said. “You are not to think about wanting names or how alive you are. Don’t you see? You are not real.”

 

Hurt once more washed into those blue eyes before the cyborg looked away. For a minute, Sherlock thought it was going to cry. Maybe even turn around and storm off every time it got into a fight with him. Strangely, that had been happening a lot lately ever since it finally relaxed around Sherlock.

 

But then it shook his head and said, “You know, I liked the name John. And Watson. The one Molly gave me. It’s—nice.”

 

“No,” Sherlock said as he stubbornly refused to let the cyborg win. Something in him acted like a child. He could just let it have a name. But he didn’t want to, unsure of why. “You will not have a name.”

 

“John Watson,” the cyborg continued, testing the name out before it looked at Sherlock and—grinned. The detective took a step back at the sudden change of expression on its face. “I like it, Sherlock. John Watson it is.”

 

Sherlock opened his mouth to deny, to tell him that a no was a no. But when he did, he saw how its face— _fell_. It fell like someone broke its hopes and dreams and Sherlock felt— _uneasy_ knowing that it was him who did that. He didn’t know why he said what he said the next minute, but he did, “Hamish sounds so much better. John is a mundane name.”

 

It eyed him for a minute before its eyes brightened. “No,” it said and shook its head, though it laughed as well. “Hamish is a horrible name, Sherlock.”

 

“Hamish is a unique name,” Sherlock said as he raised his eyebrows. “It is far better than John.”

 

The cyborg simply chuckled once more, its shoulders shaking as if it heard a good joke. Sherlock found himself wondering why it made him feel slightly light inside. He huffed out his breath before he looked away. His heart seemed to enjoy thrumming loudly against his chest and his pulse quickened.

 

“Fine, John Hamish Watson, how about it, yeah?” it asked as it took a step forward. Sherlock looked back at it and took in how it looked. Flushed cheeks, bright blue eyes, slightly messed up shiny blond hair and almost tan skin. It looked good. It was—human-looking.

 

Sherlock shrugged out as a response and flicked his wrist absent-mindedly. “Whatever.”

 

After a second, it took another step forward. “Thank you, Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock refrained from actually smiling because suddenly, he felt like it. He scoffed as a response and went back to his violin, turning his back against it.

 

 _It_.

 

 _It_ was no longer its name.

 

John was.

 

“Whatever. John.”

 

Sherlock refused to notice the bright smile from it at the window reflection. He refused to think about how it made him feel. Sentiment, he sneered in his mind. So troublesome.

 

***

 

“Sherlock, seriously? How in the world did you know it was the brother who did it?” John asked in confusion and slight awe. Sherlock simply rolled his eyes as he began pacing the living room before he stopped and looked at the blond-haired cyborg, which was leaning against the table and had its arms crossed against its chest.

 

“Don’t be mundane, John!” Sherlock exclaimed. “You’re a cyborg. How had you not known?”

 

John frowned. Sherlock noticed that every time he called John a cyborg, or anything remotely indicating that it wasn’t real, it would frown at him and sometimes, when it was a particularly tense day, it would look hurt and dejected.

 

“Even so,” John retorted. “I still don’t get that much information at one glance. I’m not created to do that.”

 

“Obviously,” Sherlock snorted and John frowned deeper.

 

“What does that supposed to mean?”

 

Sherlock stopped pacing as he looked at John. For a second, he felt this huge thump of—guilt. He was taken aback at how easily he was feeling that lately for this cyborg, especially after he had accepted that its name was John. John Hamish Watson.

 

“Nothing that isn’t true,” Sherlock said back. John seemed to take that in before it sighed and ran its fingers through its hair. Then it leaned heavier against the table and stared into Sherlock’s grey-green eyes.

 

“Okay, I’ll just ignore that,” it said pointedly. Sherlock started to wonder when it got so good at reading his usually stoic mask. “So, how, the brother?”

 

Sherlock simply eyed him like ‘Are you kidding now, John?’ but the cyborg simply shrugged. After a second of staring, Sherlock decided to just humour him. He would be lying if he said he didn’t feel good showing off his deduction skills. It never really helped when he talked to his Skull. It was…alright but since John had walked into his life, it felt much more.

 

Because John listened.

 

And responded.

 

So, Sherlock told John, showing off his deduction skills. All he needed now was the evidence that the brother did it and he would solve this case. Once he finished, he looked up and saw how awed John looked. Its eyes were wide, and a smile worked on its lips.

 

“That’s…brilliant, Sherlock,” John said as it stood up straight. Sherlock had to take some time to register the words before he felt—different inside. It felt light and he felt…appreciated? He didn’t know what the feeling was, just that he liked it. Yes, he somehow enjoyed John’s adoration.

 

“That’s not what people usually tell me,” he commented and that earned John to stretch his lips wider.

 

“What do they usually say?”

 

“Piss off.”

 

John laughed at that, though it wasn’t loud or big, but John still laughed. Sherlock found himself staring at it for a second before he caught John’s eyes. The laughter died on its face and before they knew it, they were just staring at each other. Sherlock raised his eyebrows slightly when it looked away and cleared its throat.

 

“I’ll just uh, make tea,” John said as it walked away from Sherlock. “Want a cuppa, Sherlock?”

 

Sherlock licked his lips as he furrowed his eyebrows. What was that? He hummed out as a response before he said, “Yes, please, John.” He stopped for a while to think about what was that he had witnessed. He didn’t know what it was, but Sherlock had a crawling suspicion of what it could be.

 

He pushed his thoughts aside when he realised he still had a case to close.

 

He would think about that later.

 

 

***

 

“Oh,” Molly was startled a bit when Sherlock went to the morgue and brought John along. “I see—you’ve brought him— _it_ with you.”

 

Sherlock simply raised his eyebrows at her before he shrugged. “It had been in the house doing nothing, might as well be useful for me out here.”

 

Molly eyed him suspiciously for a second before she nodded. Then, she eyed John before she looked away. Sherlock glanced at the cyborg and noticed how lifeless it acted. That was their deal. It was still not accustomed for sentient like John to be out on the streets. Humans were such complicated creatures. Somewhere, deep in his mind, he knew that there was this trickling thought of—care for this cyborg.

 

It had been a while since he had known John. It seemed like they had been together like this for almost longer than a few years when in technicality it only had been less than a year but more than six months. He looked away to the microscope and took a look inside. He still enjoyed the older ways of analysing things.

 

The modern ways were totally useless. They did not help.

 

That was why he made sure Molly kept the older equipment around and much to his short-lived delight, she enjoyed doing this manually as well.

 

“Doesn’t it need some kind of charger?” Molly asked after a while. Sherlock simply ignored her. He had better things to worry about. “Sherlock, doesn’t it need anything to eat? Replenish?”

 

“It still has almost human like biological system. It only needs to eat,” Sherlock hurriedly answered her as he glanced at her and glared. “Now if you would excuse me.”

 

Molly’s eyes widened and her cheeks reddened from embarrassment. “Oh, s—sorry, Sherlock. I’ll just leave now.”

 

“Yes, do that,” Sherlock said before he looked back to the microscope. He didn’t notice how John fidgeted ever so slightly.

 

***

 

“I’m not an ‘it’,” John spoke the minute they entered the living room. Sherlock turned around to look at him before he took off his scarf.

 

“Pardon?” Sherlock asked, slightly confused.

 

“It,” John said as it took a step forward, frowning. “I’m not an _it_. I’m a male, Sherlock. I’m a guy. I’m a _he_.”

 

Sherlock remained quiet before he shook his head. “Maybe you don’t realise it, but you are not human. You were created. Therefore, you are an ‘it’. Do learn your place.”

 

John took in a sharp breath before he frowned deeper. “I don’t like being called an ‘it’, Sherlock! I thought we established the fact that I am just more than an object.”

 

Sherlock thinned his lips. This was turning into another argument and he really did not have time to be dealing with something as emotional as this.

 

“Oh, please, John, I’m too busy now,” Sherlock said as he flicked his wrist.

 

“This is important, Sherlock!” John exclaimed. “I’m not an it. I don’t like being called an it like an object. I’m a male. I—I’m alive. I have a name!”

 

“A name does not warrant any means!” Sherlock finally said back. “You have a name, you have a will, whoppdy-doo. It does not mean _anything_ when it comes down to the fact that you were created from my head.” Sherlock tapped his temple harshly before he turned around. “Now leave me alone. I have this case to finish.”

 

He heard footsteps leaving him. But before that, he heard John shuddering out a breath like he was holding back his anger. “You’re a bastard. A cold-hearted bastard. No wonder you created me, _master_. You’re too cold for any real human.”

 

That, admittedly, really did get to Sherlock. He frowned and rolled his eyes. He was not cold because he wanted to. It was just who he was. It was just how he was programmed. He cocked his hips to the side slightly and sighed loudly. Since when had whatever John said started to matter even more than his own words?

 

“You’re not real,” Sherlock said to himself. But he didn’t know why he said it. He knew John was just a creation he brought alive from his head. That was all.

 

‘But that’s not it, is it?’

 

He was confused now. Somehow, no, it wasn’t just that that was bothering him.

 

He closed his eyes and decided to try and focus on his work first. His Work shouldn’t suffer just because of John. No, it shouldn’t.

 

***

 

Sherlock had solved the case a few hours later. It was staring at him in the eyes all the time and when he had figured it all out, he jumped up on his feet, immediately texting Lestrade. Then, he was ready to tell John about it when—he realised, John was nowhere to be found.

 

“John?” Sherlock called out as he walked to the kitchen. When he saw no signs of John, he walked to the cyborg’s room. Sherlock provided a room for it ever since he realised that John could be responsible for itself. When John wasn’t in the room either, he walked down the stairs to look for Mrs Hudson.

 

He saw her as she walked into the flat. “Mrs Hudson, have you seen John?”

 

Mrs Hudson simply sighed as she eyed Sherlock in what seemed like—disappointment. She was ever the only one besides him that knew about John’s true colour. “Sherlock,” she said and Sherlock had this sudden sense of dread in him.

 

“What? Where’s John?” Sherlock asked slightly agitated.

 

“He went out, dear,” she said as she shook her head. “Poor lad. He was so sad. Just why did you have to say that, Sherlock? Of course he deserves everything like we do too.”

 

“Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock snapped. “He left?”

 

“Now, Sherlock, don’t be so cold,” she scolded him. “I know you have much more heart than that. You can fool everyone else out there, but not me.”

 

Sherlock actually felt slightly disappointed on himself. And that was something. He frowned as he looked away from her and stormed back upstairs. “Even if he was created by you, Sherlock, admittedly he’s already as human as any one of us. If he leaves you one day, it would be his decision and you have no one but to blame yourself for it.”

 

The detective winced at the words as he walked back into the living room. What did Mrs Hudson understood anyway? She only assumed from what she eavesdropped. Sherlock scoffed loudly as he went to sit on the sofa, stretching his limbs widely.

 

“Whatever,” he said to himself. “John could be dead for all that I care.”

 

But just as the words escaped his mouth, he felt—guilty and worried.

 

It was such a foreign feeling for him but here he was, worried for John’s safety. He sighed as he looked at the ceiling, chalking it up that the cyborg would come back. He created John. John would be back.

 

So, Sherlock waited.

 

***

 

But John didn’t return and the more hours passed, the more agitated Sherlock became.

 

John, where had that idiot gone to?

 

Sherlock sat up, then he paced around the living room, and then went into the kitchen. But still, the more hours passed, the less patient he became. The twelve midnight went to three in the morning. Still, there were no signs of John.

 

He cursed himself as he decided that this was all alright. John was being John. No matter what, no matter how short or vulnerable it looked—it was still strong. John would be fine. Sherlock kept that mantra in his head as he continued on pacing about.

 

But the last strand of patience snapped when it had been ten in the morning and John had been gone for a long time now. The flat suddenly felt empty and the walls echoed out his loneliness. Sherlock scowled at that as he rubbed his forehead.

 

When he first started this, he didn’t think he would ever get—attached to the thing.

 

But he would be an idiot if he denied it any longer.

 

However, that didn’t mean Sherlock was about to go out of his limbs to search for John. Sentiment was a disadvantage. Caring was just a curse. Another life ends, a new one begins. John wasn’t even alive to begin with, so Sherlock saw no purpose to be worried any longer.

 

But for the first time after so many years, his heart started to act up. It started to thump louder against his chest against his will and it flooded his mind with some—hormones that made him feel happy whenever John was around.

 

He was new to this feeling. Utterly new like he had been just introduced to it new.

 

Infatuation? Probably not. But it was something else. Just then, the front door closed and Sherlock immediately stood up from his armchair. His eyes trained at the top of the staircase as he waited for the person to walk up and show his face. His heart crashed and died—and Sherlock actually felt it when he saw it was only Mycroft.

 

“Hello, dear brother,” he greeted and Sherlock’s mood worsened.

 

“Get lost, Mycroft,” Sherlock sneered as he sat back down on his armchair.

 

“Why so testy in the morning, Sherlock?” Mycroft cooed as he walked around the living room, his umbrella at his hand.

 

“Don’t you have something better to do than to stick your nose in someone else’s life? Oh, I don’t know, start a war somewhere?” Sherlock bit out as he curled himself on the armchair. Mycroft raised his eyebrows as he walked back to where Sherlock was sitting.

 

“Someone seemed to be down, pouting like some child,” Mycroft said. Then after a minute, he asked, “Where’s John?”

 

“John?” Sherlock asked. “Who’s John?”

 

“Oh, don’t be like that, Sherlock,” Mycroft tsked. “You know who I mean when I say John. John Hamish Watson. Your little pet.”

 

“He’s not my pet,” Sherlock immediately bit out. “Don’t call him that.”

 

“Protective,” Mycroft said before his lips turned up. “You called it a _he_.”

 

Sherlock frowned a bit before he rewind his sentence. “So? Thank you for pointing out the obvious, as always, Mycroft. Are you done?”

 

Mycroft tooted before he sat down on the other armchair that Sherlock recently brought in for John. It seemed that John liked sitting near the fireplace, so Sherlock got that idiot one. It wasn’t that he cared particularly if John sat on the ground, but well—that was what he thought.

 

“He’s not just a cyborg, is he, Sherlock?” Mycroft asked as Sherlock looked at him. His grey-green eyes hardened when he caught his brother’s meaning.

 

“You do not touch him, Mycroft,” Sherlock bit out.

 

Mycroft didn’t seem amused. “It’s dangerous to have a sentient cyborg, Sherlock.”

 

“He’s practically human,” Sherlock said, realising that he was admitting to himself that indeed, John was a person to him. John wasn’t just a cyborg anymore. Somewhere along the line, the boundaries blurred and Sherlock actually viewed him as a worthy _person_ for his attention. The only one so far who had managed to hold his attention for so long.

 

“It is precisely why I suggest you to end it,” Mycroft said and Sherlock froze.

 

“Mycroft,” Sherlock started.

 

“It is for the best. You end it. End the program and terminate the cyborg, Sherlock,” Mycroft said though it wasn’t an order. Sherlock eyed him for a while before he stood up.

 

“No,” he said. Mycroft’s eyebrows shot upwards in surprise. Sherlock had thought about it once or twice. He had thought about getting rid of John. He thought about it every time he could but along the line, he was not able to think about John that way. It felt like he was murdering someone if he let himself terminate John. His life itself would be—meaningless.

 

He wanted to scoff at the idea but he was no fool. He might be oblivious at some things but when those said things were staring at him in the face all this while, he wouldn’t ignore them if they meant something to him. “You’re attached to it,” Mycroft said dangerously quiet. “Sherlock, you’re caring.”

 

“Perhaps,” Sherlock said. “But it’s not always a disadvantage.”

 

Mycroft remained quiet before he shook his head. “Caring has never worked well for us Holmes.”

 

Sherlock thinned his lips at his brother’s words. “John’s been missing.”

 

“Yes, I know,” Mycroft said as he sighed. “I don’t know whether I have made a mistake giving you an opportunity to make John—or thankful you’re at least…” But Mycroft didn’t continue, he simply just stared at Sherlock and smiled.

 

“Then you can track him down, get him back home,” Sherlock said but Mycroft simply shook his head.

 

“He didn’t wander out far, if that is what you’re worried about. He’s safe. Constant security.”

 

Sherlock mildly took interest the fact that Mycroft had been calling John a _he_ all of a sudden too, but the immense relief that John was fine, he was alright, he was safe, was too disturbing for him to think about anything else. The detective ended up sighing before he looked away.

 

“I do not encourage it,” Mycroft said. “But I believe I could not discourage it as well. John—might be good for you.”

 

Sherlock glanced at him and eyed him carefully.

 

“It is possible, I suppose, to get him registered as a human,” Mycroft said. “I would be telling out a lot if I were to tell you the procedures but let’s just say this was not the first case that a sentient like John had been registered as a human.”

 

Sherlock took in the knowledge and savoured it for a second. Something warm bloomed in his chest at the fact that yes, John could be human after all. That John was maybe worthy to be called a he. Not an it like he had been doing all this time, like he had been denying all this while.

 

“Mycroft—”

 

“Talk to John, see what he says,” Mycroft said as he twirled his umbrella once and decided to head out of the flat. “I believe I’ll be hearing from you soon. Goodbye, little brother.”

 

Sherlock watched Mycroft leave before the quietness took over again. It was good news that John could be human. John could deserve as much as a human deserved. But right now, that was all aside. He needed to see John.

 

Sherlock never felt this anxious before. It was always because of the lack of cases and the boredom, but now, it was because he—Sherlock realised—missed John if that idiot was not around anymore.

 

He sighed as he sat back on the armchair and curled into the pathetic ball that he was.

 

***

 

It was full thirty-two hours and Sherlock was almost ready to call Mycroft again when exactly at eight in the evening, almost two days since John last went missing, the front door opened. Sherlock was playing the violin but he heard the clear footsteps coming up the stairs and then, stopped.

 

Sherlock continued to play his violin for a second before going still.

 

“S—Sherlock?”

 

The relief washed in the taller man as he placed the violin on the table and turned around to meet with those blue eyes. They looked sad, remorseful and what not—disappointed. Sherlock stared at him for a while before he realised that John—he was shaking slightly.

 

“John?”

 

“I’m sorry, I guess I—I really am an it, you know?” John said though his voice broke. “I thought I could be Human. I thought I am but then I realised how different I am from the others. I can’t—I can’t be Human. I’m not alive. I can’t even _die_.” Sherlock saw the tears, unshed, brimming at the edge of those eyes.

 

Then, the words registered in his mind and Sherlock frowned. His heart started to thump loudly against his chest. “John, what do you mean you can’t even die?”

 

John just shrugged. “John,” Sherlock said firmly. “What happened?”

 

“Nothing,” John lied. “Nothing, this isn’t about me. I get it now, Sherlock. I’m created. You can turn me off whenever you want to. I—I’m not really made for this. I—I—I’m not made to feel.”

 

“John,” Sherlock said and at each word, he felt like he had no one else to blame but himself. He took a few steps forward but John didn’t seem to stop talking. For a minute, Sherlock had wanted to smile because that was so like John. He wouldn’t stop talking even when Sherlock had really had enough of it.

 

“And to not see me bleeding was a real kicker in my reality because if I really wanted to be Human, I needed a heart, I need blood to bleed. I don’t have it. I—I stopped a mugging and the knife just went through my shoulder. I didn’t even bleed. How could I have ever thought it was alright to think as myself—”

 

Sherlock didn’t know where he got the courage from, but he just simply wrapped his arms around John and hugged him tight. The shorter male stopped talking almost immediately and Sherlock heard him take a gasp. It was silent after that. Nobody else said anything, just this, Sherlock’s arms around John like he had lost him once.

 

The detective’s pulse raced and his heart beat heavily against his chest. He knew the symptoms. Sherlock knew what he was feeling now. He hugged John tighter and for a while, he just closed his eyes and laid his cheek on the John’s head. The hair was soft against his skin and he was slightly startled to smell shampoo.

 

It was a sweet fragrance, though it was a faded smell from the days John had been out. “S—Sherlock?” John asked quietly. “Sherlock.”

 

“I’m sorry, John,” Sherlock said, the first thing that ever came out of his mouth that ever sounded more genuine than his deductions. John went still in his arms.  “I am sorry.”

 

It was uncommon for Sherlock to apologise. When he did, it was always in sarcasm and never genuine. The detective himself didn’t like apologising because he was rarely wrong. Others around him were wrong. They were never perceptive enough for Sherlock’s attention.

 

But here John was, making Sherlock apologise.

 

And for once in his life, he didn’t feel bad about it. He guessed he didn’t mind apologising to John. In fact, it seemed that his entire life somehow circled around John. It was him who Sherlock ever cared about more than anything in his life.

 

His fingers tightened around the blond-haired man and took in a shuddering breath. Then, what John had said clicked. “What?” Sherlock immediately pulled away from John and held on his shoulders tight, a frown marring his face. “What do you mean a knife had went through your shoulder?”

 

John’s cheeks were flushed and there was something like awe on his face. For a second, Sherlock was afraid he had broken him. Then, the blond went closer to Sherlock and wrapped his arms around the taller man again, this time he buried his face into Sherlock’s chest. The detective went silent but the frown was still evident on his face.

 

“I’m not human, you don’t have to worry, you don’t have to apologise. I’m not—worthy—”

 

Sherlock pulled John away from the embrace once again before he looked into those blue eyes. “John,” he started. “You are as human as anyone else. Maybe even more than me.”

 

John’s eyes widened at the declaration as he looked at Sherlock’s grey-green eyes. “What?”

 

“I may have created you, you might have originated from my head,” Sherlock said as he placed his hands on John’s shoulders. “But you proved to be more than just a machine. You’re as human as you want to be.”

 

“But I—I don’t bleed,” John said, his voice hitching. “I—I don’t have a heart, I can’t—the only reason I blush or—or, it’s all coding. I’m an it, Sherlock! You said it yourself! Just because I have a name—”

 

“You are John Hamish Watson,” Sherlock said and stopped John from rambling. “And you—you are a human to me.”

 

The blond-haired man went deadly silent as he scanned Sherlock’s face for the truth. But Sherlock kept his gaze hard and true on John. The seconds ticked on and John took the time to look and examine Sherlock as much as he wanted to. After a while, the shorter man simply sighed and looked away.

 

“Am I really? To you? I—I don’t care what other people say, honestly. But when you said it, it made me feel like I am truly not worthy to be human, even if I wished it to be true,” John said under his breath. He brought a hand and placed it against Sherlock’s chest, right where his heart was and looked into those grey-green eyes once more. “I could hear you beating. Wouldn’t it be great if I could feel my own heartbeat too?”

 

Sherlock brought one of his hands from John’s shoulder and placed it above the shorter man’s hand on his chest. “If that is what you wish,” was all he said and John’s eyes widened. “If that is what you wish, John—I’ll make it happen. It isn’t the older days anymore. Anything is possible. It was possible to make you, didn’t it?”

 

“What?” John asked, slightly astonished. “How is that possible? I’m—”

 

“You’re only half-biological,” Sherlock said, lifting one corner of his lips upwards. “But it isn’t impossible to make you at least ninety percent human. With a beating heart.”

 

John remained quiet. He didn’t say anything but Sherlock saw the happiness in those eyes as they held unshed tears. It was a wonder how he managed to encrypt all of that in John. How he managed to turn him so human just because he might’ve gone wrong somewhere in the coding. But now, here John was, much more than just a coding—already seemed to have taken a huge place in his Mind Palace, and his heart.

 

“I—I don’t know what to say,” John said as he blinked a few times to get rid of the tears. His voice was shaky though and Sherlock knew this time, it was not because he was disappointed. It was perhaps because he was happy. Happy that he could be human, human and alive.

 

“Then say nothing,” Sherlock said as he dragged John back into his arms once more. He was never an affectionate being. But with John, it seemed only natural to do things like this.

 

John hugged him back almost immediately. “I want that, everything you said, I want it,” John said, muffled against his chest. “I want to be with you. I—I think I love you, Sherlock.”

 

This time, Sherlock froze longer than a minute, enough time for John to dislodge himself to look slightly berated. “Love?” Sherlock said under his breath.

 

“Yeah,” John said with another shrug. “I feel, don’t I? I—I’ve liked you for a while now, Sherlock. I always did. You were different. You seemed so unique from others and you have this brilliant deducting skills that even I couldn’t have had if I was human. You’re brilliant and maybe—daft in some parts of life but…you’re you. And I fell for you because of that.”

 

Sherlock didn’t know what to say. Admitting it to himself was one part of the process but to have it being admitted to his face was another part entirely new. He held himself back from blurting out defensive words that could scare John away. He didn’t want this man to leave. He wanted him by his side.

 

Despite that he only started off as a project out of boredom, Sherlock had never felt so connected to someone before. Was that love? Sherlock didn’t know but he knew what attraction was. His heart picked up speed once more from the confession though he just kept quiet for a minute or two. “I—I could not say that I feel the same way, John.”

 

His face fell but John seemed like he knew that was what he was expecting. “It’s alright, Sherlock. I’m not the best choice around here to be with. But I’ll take anything you’re willing to give. Honestly, it doesn’t matter.”

 

“It does though, doesn’t it?” Sherlock said and John winced at the words.

 

“Perhaps to one degree,” John said. “But I asked too much from you already. I don’t think I should be asking for more.”

 

Sherlock remained quiet before he huffed out his breath. John looked at him cautiously as he eyed the detective. That mere look seemed to have amused the taller man as he pulled his lips into a smile. “I am daft, in this part of things. Not my area of expertise,” Sherlock admitted and he wondered briefly if the huge gasp he heard was from the universe.

 

Yes, yes, he got it. He never liked admitting his weaknesses but it was a start, wasn’t it? Maybe he wouldn’t do it all the time, but for now, he was trying to make a statement. He mentally scowled at the universe.

 

“Maybe you need to teach me,” Sherlock said as he looked at John. “Maybe you need to teach me how to feel…like you.”

 

“Sherlock?” John asked as his lips stretched wide on his face and Sherlock decided, that yes, he liked that look on his John. “You don’t have to do anything. I’m getting everything that I wanted. You don’t have to—”

 

“But I want to, I suppose,” Sherlock cut him off as he grabbed onto John’s hands and caressed them. “Call them as an experiment for now, if you will.”

 

John looked at him before something bright lit in those eyes. Before Sherlock could comprehend what was happening, the blond-haired man had grabbed Sherlock by the collar and dragged him down. The taller man’s eyes widened when he felt the soft lips landing on his own. It was just a peck, a chaste kiss before John let him go and grinned.

 

The detective was not experienced in that area at all. He felt his face heating up as he looked down to John and licked his lips. The warmth from the shorter man’s lips lingered on his own lips. “Okay,” was all John said. Sherlock raised his eyebrows and slowly realised that no, he didn’t hate this feeling at all.

 

Sherlock lifted the corner of his lips upwards in amusement before he let John’s hands go and placed them on the warm cheeks. Slowly, he leaned in and let their noses touch. The shorter man just looked at him patiently, waiting. “I’m not very good at this, so please excuse me.”

 

Before John could reply, he placed his lips on John’s and closed his eyes. It felt different to have someone’s lips against his. It was, but at the same time, it didn’t feel bad when John kissed him back, almost without experience as he was.

 

Perhaps they would learn along the way.

 

Maybe this could work after all.

 

When John was finally human, maybe they could be together in ways they couldn’t even imagine. Sherlock kept that thought close to himself as he tasted John. One day, this man would be really Human. It would take months of procedure, and maybe even months more of finalising a real human body for him, but Mycroft did say this wasn’t the first case.

 

Sherlock hoped, for the first time in his life, that this would work.

 

Somehow he knew, John was hoping too.

 

His John.

 

Yes, sometimes, sentiment wasn’t a disadvantage after all.

 

 

**The End**

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Well--ta-da-da-daaaahhhh! I'm not really happy with the ending but well, I couldn't really think of an alternate ending for it unless you lot want to cry and sob with thousands of tissue paper littering all around you. Tee-hee? Uhm. But then again, I'm also thinking about continuing this universe. Like, did the transition to making a almosthuman!John worked or failed? What happened in their lives after the event? How would the others react to this news? I don't know. www but--that all depends on the crowd, so do let me know what you guys thought and--kudos if you guys liked it! Until next time! -Krystal
> 
> Basic coding provided by museaway


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